Every Inner Inertia
by inkfiction
Summary: Post-curse Fairytale Land AU. It has been two years since the curse broke but nothing is as it was supposed to be.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Every Inner Inertia (1/?)  
**Fandom:** Once Upon a Time  
**Characters:** Swan Queen, Henry  
**Warning/Spoilers:** Light spoilers for Season 1. Warning for dark themes and angst.  
**Summary:** Post-curse Fairytale Land AU. It has been two years since the curse broke but nothing is as it was supposed to be.  
**Disclaimer:** This is purely fictional. I own none of it.

[…]

_A/N: I started this sometime around Heart of Darkness — or maybe it was before Stable Boy. I don't really remember except that it was sometime before the hiatus. This was something quite different back then but somehow it evolved into this and I've been sitting on this for ages now, waiting for a bolt of lightning to strike or something. I've been told that this — and I quote — 'oozes angst and depression; you can feel it coming off in waves' which is silly. When do I ever write angst? :P Okay, no, probably it is a bit too dark and angsty — at least in the start. Let's keep faith for later. Your feedback will be highly appreciated, of course._

"…_in my arbor 'til my ardor trumped every inner inertia, lump sum."  
__**~Bon Iver — Lump Sum**_

**in·er·tia **/ iˈnərSHə /

1. The _vis insita_, or innate force of matter, is a power of resisting by which every body, as much as in it lies, endeavors to preserve its present state, whether it be of rest or of moving uniformly forward in a straight line.

2. A tendency to do nothing or to remain unchanged.

[...]

It had been one of the good days today. He had sat with her for more than an hour, holding her hand and smoothing back the short blond hair from her forehead, and for a change she hadn't shouted or lunged at him. She hadn't tried to scream at him or bite him, or hit him or herself. She had been rather docile; meek, even. He had listened, nodded at, and responded to every jumbled sentence and nonsense word she uttered. He had listened to her sing, the only tune she ever sang, and when he had fed her little morsels of bread dipped in soup, for once she ate without complaint or hysterics. The soup was laced with herbs that were used to put her to sleep. That was the only way to manage her these days. He watched her nod as she hummed the achingly familiar notes she always hummed. He had just discovered from the court bard a little of the meaning and story behind them and they seemed even more haunting to him now. The Queen, apparently, didn't think so because she had banished the old man from the court when she had discovered him singing this song.

Eventually her eyes closed. He lay her down on the mattress, careful to arrange her shackles so that they wouldn't hurt or restrict her too much. He planted a kiss on her forehead before leaving.

"She's asleep," he told the two maids who had been waiting outside the door and watched them exhale identical relieved breaths. It made him want to throw them down the tower window, so when he spoke again his tone was harsher than he intended. "Let her sleep for a while. You can go in after some time to clean her up and change her clothes and bandages. Comb her hair."

"Yes, Your Highness," they curtsied to him. He nodded curtly and hastened towards the steps that spiraled down the tower. There was only so much heartache he could take in one day. He strode across the wide grass lawns towards the palace halls where the King held his court, not even trying to keep pace with the greetings and curtsies he was being offered by everyone he passed. He was the Lord Prince of the realm, after all. He could do whatever the hell he wanted. Sometimes.

"Prince Henry!"

He heard the quivering call before he saw the old man making his way towards him across the main lawn. It was the old court bard. His exotic red cloak was wrapped around him like a set of wings, and his shriveled up face seemed even smaller surrounded by his insane tufts of hair.

"Prince Henry," he wheezed out again.

"Zorbas!" he slowed his steps, and bent down a little to greet the old man. "What are you doing here? You know you can't be here, the Queen banished you just a few days ago."

"I had to see you, my Prince," said the bard.

"But you — how did you even get in?"

"My nephew Edmund is with the night guard, Your Highness. He helped me."

Henry let out an exasperated breath. "You shouldn't be here. If any of the Queen's men see you or if she finds out about your nephew and what he did—"

"Your Highness, I had to see you to give you this. It is about that song you were asking me—"

"Zorbas!" Henry hissed. "You cannot talk about it here! It is what got you banished. I'm so sorry I even asked about it, I had no idea that the Queen would react so strongly." He shook his head. "You should go. The Queen has men everywhere—"

"I know, Your Highness, but you need to have this," the old man handed him a tightly furled scroll. "It is the whole—"

"My god, _Zorbas!_ If anyone saw you handing me this, you'll be labeled a traitor!"

The bard sighed resolutely but when he spoke, his voice was firm.

"I am an old man, my Prince. I've served faithfully as a bard in this hall since I was your age. I have seen many winters and springs. I have eyes and ears, too, my Prince. I see what is going on around me. If my death can bring about some good—"

"What are you talking about?"

"Read the scroll, Your Highness. Read and maybe you'll find it in your heart to be understanding, to see beyond and, perhaps, forgive."

"Zorbas—" Henry sighed. The old man's theatrics had always been impressive; it was easy to see why he had been the court bard for so many years. His soft, slow tone was spell-binding.

"All must end, my Prince. But it is not necessary that it must end like this. I sang you part of the song you sought — the song that the Queen hates enough to banish me from the court I spent my life in. Though once she wouldn't have. Time changes a lot of people, my Prince. As does guilt. This is the rest of it, the song."

He stared at the old bard and felt distress clawing at his heart.

"Why are you giving me this? What is _she_ to you?"

"Nothing. No one, not for a very long time. But once — only once when her marriage was new and her heart still beat in pain — I sang this song for her, and I saw the tears it brought."

"It does not make any sense—"

"It will, my Prince. It will," said the old man. His voice held a strange faith.

Henry looked down at the tightly furled scroll in his hand and then tucked it carefully inside his doublet. And then, guilt overwhelming him, he took out the few gold coins he had in his pocket and gave them to Zorbas. The old bard looked offended.

"Your Highness, I'm not doing this for gold!"

"I know that, Zorbas. It will, nevertheless, make me very happy if you accept these. I am, after all, the reason you were banished and lost your livelihood. If I hadn't asked you to sing this song, this wouldn't have happened."

The old man grudgingly took the gold. Suddenly there was a very familiar bald head visible across the lawn and a shout of "Prince Henry!"

The Master of Keys!

"Quick, Zorbas! You need to go now!"

The old man was surprisingly sprightly and was gone in an instant. Henry watched the outrageous red cloak disappear into a gaggle of peasants and then stepped forward towards the cool, oblong entrance of the palace.

"Your Highness," he was greeted by the Master of the Keys.

"Lord Smithson," Henry nodded at the weasel-faced, bald lord. The man was instantly dislikable.

"Might I inquire as to who you were conversing with just now, Your Highness?"

"You might not, Lord Smithson."

"Begging pardon, Your Highness, but—" Smithson faltered at seeing the thunderous expression on his face.

"Yes, Smithson?" he said, daring the fastidious lord to complete his sentence. Smithson deflated rather obviously.

"I have a message, Your Highness."

"Well, what is it?"

"His Majesty the King desires your presence in the Eastern Hall."

"Did he say why?"

"It is not for me ask, my Prince," said Smithson in his pompous tone. "But I do believe it has something to do with your lessons."

"Of course," Henry sighed. "I shall go there presently. There's no need for you to escort me," he added as Smithson made to walk with him. "I can find the Eastern Hall myself, Smithson, and I'm sure you have better things to do."

Smithson's face became sour as a lemon but he stepped back and bowed his head. "As you say, Your Highness."

He dismissed Smithson with a flick of his hand and made his way towards the Eastern Hall, a long, high room fraught with huge pillars reaching up into the ceiling and disappearing amongst sky-lights, where the King held his main court every day. He entered to find the hall full of people yet there was hardly any sound at all except for the low, sorrowful murmur of King James's voice from his throne at the front of the hall. As he moved forward, people recognized him and moved out of his way murmuring 'Your Highness' and curtseying. He nodded as he moved towards the throne where someone knelt in front of the King.

"Your Majesty," he said, bowing down, the edge of the scroll stabbing right at his heart through his shirt. "You called for me?"

"Ah, yes," the King eyed him with his dead, haunted eyes. "Yes. Here you are."

He waited silently for the King to continue. The formality irked him sometimes but he was learning to live with it. And it offered the King and the Queen a semblance of normalcy, a stab at their previous lives, so he was willing to let it go.

"Rise, sir," the King addressed the man in the deep purple velvet coat who was kneeling down in front of the throne. "Here's your new teacher, Henry. Goodman Jefferson has agreed to teach you Cartography of the Fairytale Land."

Jefferson turned towards him and bowed his head. "Your Highness."

Henry nodded back, recognizing the Mad Hatter. "Thank you for agreeing to teach me, Jefferson. I hope Grace is well?" He inquired politely, already longing to get out of the huge hall filled with dead whispers.

"She is, Your Highness, thank you. She sends her regards."

Before he could say anything in acceptance, the King spoke, "Why don't you take him to the study, Henry?"

"Of course, Your Majesty. I'm sorry," he bowed, and the two of them walked out of the Eastern Hall together. He was glad to be outside that place; it felt like a mausoleum filled with ghosts too stubborn to go away, too afraid to speak.

"I hope you've been keeping well, Your Highness?" Jefferson said.

"As well as can be, thank you, Jefferson. Would you like me to call you sir?" He had had a history teacher last month who insisted he call him sir at all times, but Jefferson quickly shook his head.

"Jefferson will be fine, Your Highness," he said.

"Then I insist you call me Henry."

Jefferson smiled. "Thank you, Henry. May I ask how your mother is? I haven't seen her for a long time. I've been wanting to thank her for making it possible for me to reunite with my daughter, maybe I can pay her a visit later?"

Henry felt his heart contract with pain, making him stop in his tracks. Of course Jefferson wouldn't know, not many people in the Fairytale Land did. The King and Queen preferred it this way. They were already suffering a life devoid of Hope, they didn't want to inflict it on their people.

"No," he found himself saying in response to Jefferson's inquiring gaze. "She has plans for quite some time yet. I don't think she will be free."

"Oh," Jefferson sounded disappointed.

"But I will give her your message when I see her."

"Thank you, Henry. That would be nice. Now where would you like to begin, for your first lesson?"

"Actually," Henry said, genuine fatigue creeping into his voice. "Would it be possible for us to start tomorrow? I feel rather tired from … riding today. I'm afraid I won't be able to give my best."

"Oh, of course," Jefferson said. "Tomorrow, it is. Please give my regards to your mother."

It took Henry a moment to respond, "Yes, please give mine to Grace. Goodbye Jefferson." And with that he abruptly turned walked away, leaving a slightly confused Jefferson behind him. But he had had enough for one day; if he didn't run away he was afraid he might scream. And then there was that scroll, its edge still digging into his skin right where his heart lay. He rushed towards the South-east wing of the palace where he had chosen his chambers.

_A/N: So relieved to finally put it up! I know I am a sporadic updater but I have quite a few chapters of this written down so this will be updated sooner than others. Hopefully. Can't wait to know what you guys think._

_Edit: Zorbas (Zorba's dance) is a song by Greek composer Mikis Theodorakis._


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Every Inner Inertia (2/?)  
**Fandom:** Once Upon a Time  
**Characters:** Swan Queen, Henry  
**Warning/Spoilers:** Light spoilers for Season 1. Warning for dark themes and angst.  
**Summary:** Post-curse Fairytale Land AU. It has been two years since the curse broke but nothing is as it was supposed to be.  
**Disclaimer:** This is purely fictional. I own none of it.

[...]

_A/N: Hopefully this chapter will answer most of your queries. I get a tad philosophical in the middle, yes, but I hope that won't be a deterrent. Thank you for your review, faves and follows. Feedback is always appreciated._

As Henry made his way towards his chambers, his thoughts were a jumble of flashbacks and regrets. This was not the happy ending he had envisioned for himself. He looked at the existence they were eking out at the palace, and it seemed pitiful. The King sat listlessly on his throne all day, listening with glassy eyes to his lords and his subjects, ruling over the never-ending petty squabbles of dwarves and gnomes and whatnot, in a kingdom which he still wasn't used to ruling, even after a couple of years. The Queen, torn between severe depression and maniacal rage, spent her days either buried in her chambers or rambling about in the darkest parts of the forest on wild and reckless hunts.

And he — the Prince and Heir of the realm spent his days learning his princely duties and trying to act so much older than his fifteen years. He had to, for the sake of his grandfather and his grandmother — the King and Queen who had lost Hope. For the sake of the mad, raving wraith of a woman who was wasting away in the highest and most distant tower of the royal palace, away from the eyes of all the people she had saved. The Hope, the White Knight who had saved a world, broken a curse — and ended up broken herself. The woman — his mother, the one who was supposed to have been the Savior, the Heir Apparent, the Princess with the gold-spun hair, fair as snow, bright as sunlight. She was now chained to the stone walls, raving and screaming at anyone who dared to come near her.

The injustice of it all burned in his heart.

She hadn't gotten her happy ending either. That was the price she had paid for breaking the curse, for giving the rest of the Fairytale Land their happy endings — her sanity, her happiness, her family, her love. The very essence of her being.

He reached his chambers and dismissed the pageboy with a curt flick of his fingers, too upset for words. When the poor boy tried to speak, he slammed the door in his shocked face, savoring the look of wide-eyed surprise that crossed his eyes in the moment before the door closed. He flung his cloak unceremoniously on to the bed and taking out the scroll from his doublet, he made his way to the huge window which overlooked the grassy lawns and stables that lay on the south-east side of the palace. Them, and the Southern Tower where his mother was kept. Sometimes during the dark nights, when she was being particularly unmanageable, he could see the flickering lights of candles still burning in her room and hear her mad screams. Those were the worst nights, the nights he couldn't sleep. Even though today everything in the Southern tower was quiet, it did not make him feel any better.

If he was truthful, he missed his previous life which had, at least, a semblance of normalcy, and happiness. It was a very hard lesson that he was learning only now: sometimes doing the deed and emerging victorious does not mean that you've really won.

Oh, he had saved the world. It wasn't what it was cranked up to be. The black and white edges of his childish perception were beginning to fray and dissolve into a many-shaded gray. He was beginning to understand that sometimes a victory doesn't mean you've triumphed. Sometimes battles are won but causes are lost. That the hardest thing is not making a sacrifice, but learning to live with it afterwards. That the worst curse imaginable was not loneliness or loss or even death: it was love.

Love, which grew without roots and crept into the smallest, hardest, bleakest places, and made you do wonderful and unimaginable things. Love was the absolute pinnacle, the lowest of lows of human emotions. It was their downfall, their absolution.

He looked again at the scroll he had unfurled. It was a short song, not very ornate either. A simple melody and even simpler words, and the saddest story he had ever read. His eyes sought out the lines again and he thought he understood now, a little bit, but he understood. It had been love which had made Regina what she was when she cast the curse, and it had been love, in the end, which had made her give in to Emma and allow her to break the curse — love for her son, for Emma. And it had been love which had made Mr. Gold fight that so hard, his love for his Power battling with his love for his long lost son.

The Final Battle hadn't been with the Evil Queen. It had been fought between a mad, insane Dark One and the White Knight. And the point when it had seemed all would be lost forever, when the Dark One was winning, it had been love which had made Regina throw herself at Rumplestiltskin to save Emma. And when he had his sharp-edged dagger pressed against Regina's throat, ready to slit it, it had been love that had made Emma grab with her bare hands the silver-gold dagger with the dark script spelling out the Dark One's name, and sink it with all her might into Rumplestiltskin's heart even as Regina screamed at her to stop. In Rumplestiltskin's hand the dagger had been nothing but a dagger because his magic did not work in the Real World, but in the Savior's hand it was a powerful magical tool, because she was the only one who possessed magic in that land.

But Henry hadn't known all that back then; all he knew, as he watched from the sidelines, was that one moment they were fighting, and the next Emma had killed Rumplestiltskin and Regina was screaming as if she was the one who was dying and not Rumplestiltskin — and then everything had happened in a quick succession. The instant the dark script on the dagger had changed from 'Rumplestiltskin' to 'Emma', the already weakened curse had finally unraveled and the world around them had vanished in a thick blue-grey smoke. His own screams were drowned in the disorienting journey back to the Fairytale Land, and he had opened his eyes to find Regina screaming and cradling Emma in her arms, shaking and sobbing. Before he could do anything, ask anything, the King was upon her and a mob was dragging Regina off, and Emma lay on the stones, so still and unblinking. She was alive, breathing, but her eyes were dead. The clash of good and evil in her soul had been too much for her mind. She had lost it all.

She had ripped the curse of its power and killed the Dark One. It was like magic when things in Storybrooke finally changed for once and all, and magic always comes with a price. It had saved Regina's life; it had destroyed Emma's sanity. And sealed her fate.

He knew that was what had stolen the hope from King James's eyes, and that was the reason behind the grief and anger Queen Snow harbored in her heart every moment of every day that passed. It killed them both to see their daughter, their Savior in that condition. It had changed them — this constant, unrelenting sorrow. Maybe if Emma had died (and it hurt him to think this, but after two years he was coming to realize it was true), things would have been different; they would have eventually gotten better. Because time heals and gives you patience, and the will to endure after you lose something. But this was so much worse!

Every day they woke up to find their daughter mad and insane, found but still lost to them, and every night they went back to bed only to lie awake with this weight heavy on their hearts, coupled with the knowledge that theirs was the decision that had eventually brought her to this fate. Despite their constant searches, they had been unable to find a cure anywhere — even Rheul Gorm had refused to touch something so full of Dark Magic lest it might taint her own 'Good' Magic.

They were, had always been good people, but this constant and great grief had changed them so much. Henry thought he now understood a little of what Regina had gone through, how she had changed so much. He had seen it happen to his grandparents, day by day, week by week in front of his own eyes, their good souls withered by a sorrow of their own making, and too great to bear.

They had sent their daughter away and told her to find them, and she had found them, and in doing so she had lost herself.

[...]

He sighed and turned away from the window tucking the scroll back into his doublet just as his door was furiously knocked at and then forcefully opened. There weren't many people who could do that so he wasn't surprised to see the King standing outside the door. He was, however, surprised to see Snow beside him, looking furious. He had thought she had gone hunting again.

"Your Majesties—" he began but the King shut him off with one gesture of his hand.

"What is the meaning of this, Henry? Why did you send Jefferson away?"

"I just thought—"

"After all the trouble your grandfather went to, to persuade him to teach you," Snow was the one to cut him off now.

"I'm sorry, Your Majesty," he began carefully. "I was tired and I thought it would be better to start fresh tomorrow when I could concentrate more readily. I did not mean—"

"Is this how you plan to tackle your royal duties? You are not a peasant's son, Henry. You are a Prince, and the Heir to this realm. It is your duty to learn about it, and put that knowledge to use later on. Making excuses to get out of your duties simply won't do! If I hadn't happened to meet Jefferson as he exited the castle, we would never have known of this," the Queen went on, enraged.

Henry sighed. Clearly today was one of the angry days.

"That was not my intent, Your Majesty," he said in a low voice. "I was simply too tired to—"

"You are the Lord Prince," said the King, voice heavy with disappointment. "You do not have the luxury of being too tired to perform your duties."

Henry felt a lump in his throat which he hurried to clear away. He knew he was the Lord Prince, the Heir Apparent but sometimes when they looked at him, the King with his sorrowful, disappointed eyes, the Queen with her enraged glare, he just wanted them to stop being the ruling monarchs for a moment and gather his fifteen-year-old self in their arms and tell him that it was okay, that it was going to be all right. But he knew he did not have the luxury of that either.

"I am sorry," he stated simply, looking down.

"You're _sorry?"_ the Queen wasn't ready to let it go that easily. "You _should_ be sorry! It is all her fault, that atrocious woman! It just goes to show how much upbringing matters! Even after being vanquished, she manages to bring discord to my household! First you go about listening to that — that _song!_ And now this!"

"Your Majesty—" Henry began but the Queen continued her tirade, and frankly, he wasn't sure he could have said anything at that moment.

"No, Henry! You are not at fault here, your upbringing is! Obviously, two years of our care and training aren't enough to overcome what that _witch_ spent thirteen years doing—"

"Snow!" This time it was James who interrupted her, seeing Henry's distress. He laid a hand on her arm and said very quietly, "Why don't you freshen up? I will have a talk with Henry and then we can have dinner."

The Queen took a deep breath, her frown still intact. "Very well. But he shall not dine with us today. I shall have the maids bring him some dinner here. That is his punishment." She turned abruptly and marched off.

Henry didn't know whether to be relieved or sad. James looked at him quietly for a long moment.

"You have disappointed us greatly, Henry," he said in the grave tone that had become his signature since the Final Battle. "Now, more than ever, it is your duty to rise up to the standards required of a prince of this realm. You are the only Hope we have left."

Henry felt his heart grow even heavier.

"I am sorry, Your Majesty," he said, his tone contrite. "It will not happen again."

James nodded as he stood up and opened the door. "Please see that it doesn't," he said and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Henry sat down on the bed, too drained to do anything else. The Queen's words were ringing in his ears. When the maid brought him dinner, he sent her away. He watched the shadows outside his window lengthen, watched candles come to life in the Southern Tower. It was very silent today, Emma must still be sleeping. He sat there in the dark for a very long time, having refused his pageboy when he came to light the candles. His thoughts slowly drifted to the scroll hidden in his doublet. Finally when the stars began to change their course slowly but steadily, and the night creatures and sentries vied with each other for being the sole owner of any nocturnal sounds present, he came to a decision. He stood up from his place on the bed before he could change his mind and hid the scroll in the deepest corner of his wardrobe. He picked up his darkest cloak, and tied it securely over his shoulder.

He steeled his heart, and he went to see the woman who had been responsible for thirteen years of his upbringing. He took the longer route, not wanting the King or the Queen to see him. He knew that the King would look at him with his haunted eyes devoid of any Hope, and the Queen would fly into a rage which would make the marble pillars of the Eastern Hall shake. He knew he shouldn't, but he didn't know where else to go.

So two years after the Final Battle, twenty-four long months later, he decided to go see the woman who had brought him up.

[...]

_A/N: Phew. It is __**hard**__ to write the Charmings like this. I've tried to ground it in reality as much as possible (seeing that it is a fairytale, though…). Snow __**would**__ be bitterly angry and depressed, lashing out (like the time she took the Forgetting Potion), and James, having tried everything he could and failed, would just be a very, very sad man. He's practical, our Charming, but here's the daughter he almost died to save, and for once he can't kiss her awake, can't slay beasts so that she'd be safe, can't ride to her rescue, can't take an arrow to save her, no. He can't do anything, so he just sits on his throne and mourns quietly, and watches as his wife rages and shouts at everyone, and sobs in the confines of her rooms. Oh, my God, I am depressing myself now :( __I shall leave my head canon in my head. _But *hint hint* favorite chapter ahead!

_Can't wait to know what you guys think!_


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Every Inner Inertia (3/?)  
**Fandom:** Once Upon a Time  
**Characters:** Swan Queen, Henry  
**Warning/Spoilers:** Light spoilers for Season 1. Warning for dark themes and angst.  
**Summary:** Post-curse Fairytale Land AU. It has been two years since the curse broke but nothing is as it was supposed to be.  
**Disclaimer:** This is purely fictional. I own none of it.

[. . .]

_A/N: This chapter — this whole scene, especially the last part, I'd like to say, is the core of this story. This was the first scene I wrote for this fic — back then it was a one-shot and Emma wasn't even in it — and then it kinda squirmed and turned over and grew limbs and horns and a tail and everything. Also, this scene was written in its entirety while listening to __**'Famous Blue Raincoat'**__ by __**Leonard Cohen**__ on repeat, which is possibly the saddest song on earth (and I know it isn't remotely related to this fic but it makes my heart hurt so bad!). Not a lot of things I write make me want to cry. In fact, fanfic making me cry is rare — my __**own **__fanfic making me cry is almost unheard of! This did. This does. I guess what I am trying to say here (on the risk of sounding cheesy) is that that last scene has a little piece of my heart in it._

[. . .]

"_Don't you know," he said sadly. "All the tales are true."_

_..._

They kept her in a small cell in the deepest, darkest part of the dungeons. Cold and bleak, it was the same one that had been especially constructed for Rumplestiltskin all those years ago, to hold his magic back, even though she didn't have a lot of magic left. When they had captured her, the King had wanted to kill her at once. The Queen had stopped his hand but it hadn't been out of pity. Henry still remembered the words she had uttered in the grip of mad grief and anger, freshly returned from thirty years of exile, freshly reunited with a now insane daughter.

"I will not have her killed," she had said, voice hard as stone and just as emotionless. "She has little, if any, magic left. Let her suffer. Let her suffer for thirty years. And then thirty more. Even then will I not be satisfied. Let her suffer."

Regina hadn't said anything, she hadn't uttered a word of protest or a sound of regret. She had gone very quietly with the soldiers.

Getting rid of the guards that night was easier than he had thought. He was their prince, after all, and they left him alone when he asked them to. He walked towards her cell passing intentionally through the shadows, his boots making a soft, tapping sound on the stone floor covered with rushes. He stopped a dozen steps from the metal bars, shrouded in the dark.

"Is it time to eat already?" called out the voice he knew so well. He didn't answer, just stood there in the shadows and looked at her.

Her body seemed to have shrunken but her presence was still the same; it was as overpowering as ever. She was thin, her hair hung limp around her face, longer than he ever remembered but shorter than he knew they once had been. There were dark circles around her eyes and the drab grey garments she wore hung loosely on her shoulders. Her cheeks might have been hollowed, her face paler than it had ever been, but she had lost none of that regal grace that had always made her face unforgettable. Her features were still haughty and as composed as ever. It didn't look like imprisonment had affected her much. But even as he stood there watching silently, he saw some of the composure falter.

"Who is it?" she said, peering at him in the shadows, and he saw an uncertain look pass over her face, followed by something akin to hope, as she came forward to grip the bars of her prison cell.

"Are you—?" She took a deep breath. "Is that you, Henry?"

Henry was surprised, but only for a moment; of course she would know.

"Yes," he said after a few seconds of debating silence, and saw her face strangely light up in the dark, damp dungeon. The change was instantaneous; for a moment he thought she was going to laugh out loud.

"Won't you — come into the light? Let me look at you." Her tone, though, was hesitant, pleading. "Please." She added when he didn't respond, and somehow he found himself stepping forward and pushing back his hood, letting the flickering light of the lone torch on the wall fall on his face. He watched her looking at him, drinking in his face like a thirsty, starving survivor in the desert who happens to find water at the last moment.

"Look at you," she whispered, a gleam of sudden, unshed tears in her eyes. "So tall, so handsome. So grown-up."

He was a little ashamed at how much he craved that note of pride in her voice. His heart was starved of any maternal affection. The King and Queen were the only paternal figures he had right now and they were still grieving for their own daughter, still trying to catch up on thirty years of parenting and the fact that they hadn't been able to do anything about it, and how helpless they had been, unable to do anything even when the end had come. They did not have time for a fifteen-year-old boy in their grief and pain.

For a moment the pride and love in her voice made him feel much taller than he actually was. For a moment he felt like a little boy and he wanted nothing more than to rush into the arms of the woman who had brought him up, soothed so many of his hurts and pains for most of his short-spanned life.

"You look so much like her," she said. "You have her eyes."

That made all the feeling in his heart turn to ice in a moment and he planted his feet even more firmly at the spot he was standing, willing himself to move not an inch closer.

She smiled wistfully like she understood. "I'm so proud of you," she said. "You're all grown up. My handsome little gentleman," she whispered, and that was exactly the wrong thing to say because it hit him right in that raw, bruised nerve.

"I'm not!" He hissed vehemently. "I'm not your _anything._"

He saw a shadow of deep pain pass through her eyes before she schooled her features back into a semblance of serene composure.

"Of course not," she said.

They were both silent for some time. He looked at her, moving a step closer. There were lines on her face which had never been there before, and her eyes were full of a deep, aching sorrow.

Finally he was the one to break the silence that stretched between them.

"I heard that song the other day," he said abruptly, and because he could not think of anything else to say. "The one you used to play to me on our piano back—" _Back home,_ he wanted to say but stopped. "—back in Storybrooke. And when you used to sing me to sleep at night. You only ever sang that one song."

"You never wanted any other," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "You only quieted down when you heard that song."

"It used to make my heart ache, even when I didn't know what the words meant." He watched her watching him, her gaze was steady but her eyes glittered with something that looked very much like unshed tears.

"You never sang me the whole thing," he continued, softly, slowly. "You never told me which part of the song it belonged to." He watched her eyes widen a little, her mouth set in a pinched, hard line of pain. "You never told me it was the part where she—" He stopped as he saw one lone tear make its way down one cheek. "—where she was singing to her dead lover, telling him to sleep peacefully and forever. After digging his grave under the old oak where they used to meet."

"Who—" she began but he over-rode her, speaking in that same soft voice.

"I read all of it today. _'The Lay of the Lost Lovers'_. About true love and happiness, and betrayal and sorrow. About the man who died thinking he had eternal happiness in his grasp till his dying breath, when his heart was ripped out of his chest, when he found out how wrong he had been. And about the girl who broke so completely as he died in her arms even as she kissed his already cold lips, trying to bring him back with True Love's kiss which never worked. The void she then tried to fill with pain and heartache and dark magic, which sent her over the edge and into sheer darkness."

He saw the tears falling freely from her eyes now.

"Who — where did you hear — who told you this?"

"The old court bard," he said.

"Zorbas?"

He nodded, remembering his shriveled up, old face.

"You know him? The song said up in the East there is an unmarked grave under an old oak tree. The Queen banished him from the court when she found him singing this song to me."

"Good riddance, then," she said, wiping at her face with the back of her hand, her voice shaky. "Telling you such tales!"

"Don't you know," he said sadly. "All the tales are true."

He let the sentence hang there like a dark, cloying cloud and she looked at him feeling her heart ache. He was much too young to feel such sorrow, to have his voice weighed down with sadness so much greater than his years. He was much too young to stop believing in the possibility of happy endings. She took a deep breath and gathered herself.

"Snow doesn't know you're here, does she? She would never have allowed you to see me. She hasn't, for the last two years, no matter how hard I've begged, pleaded, cajoled every time she comes to vent and scream at me. Does she know you're here now?"

Silence greeted her question, seconds lengthening into minutes.

"My mother has lost her mind," he said after minutes of absolute quiet, in a voice soft enough to be a whisper, enunciating each word with great care as if they would break, or he would break.

He saw the shadows of pain and regret deepen on her face.

"My mother is insane. They keep her in the tower. Shackled to the walls." He spoke haltingly. "They can't unchain her because then she hits them. And hurts herself." He stopped for a moment as if to collect himself. "She doesn't know anyone anymore, but sometimes when I go to see her, she holds my hand. She cries — or sometimes she laughs. And sings. Not really proper words, she just—" he looked up to see her gripping the bars with white knuckles, tears sliding down her face steadily.

"It sounds like your song," he told her and he could see the ache in her eyes. Silence stretched between them.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," he said.

"I wish I could—" she began but he went on.

"This isn't how it was supposed to be. The Evil Queen was supposed to be destroyed. You were supposed to die. And Emma was supposed to live. Happy." He swallowed. "Sane."

His voice was oddly thick. She looked at him and ached. "I wish I could make that happen for you, I swear. Give you and Emma your happy ending even if it means I have to get out of your life forever. What are another thirty years of misery to me, if you're happy."

He swallowed hard and went on.

"For so long I have hated you, even before the curse was broken, even in the other world. I hated you so much." Even though she tried to maintain her indifferent expression she could not; he saw the pain his words were causing her but he did not stop. "What was there to love? You were the Evil Queen, incapable of love or regret or simple acts of kindness, and in turn unworthy of all of these, either. You had stolen the happy endings from everyone around you, and I was sure your love for me was all an act, that I was a part of some evil plot or a scheme, a mere cog in the whole evil machine."

She started to shake her head but then stopped, lips pinched, letting him carry on.

"For years I hated you. I hated you when I woke up, and I hated you when I went to sleep. I hated you with an absoluteness that only a ten-year-old can manage. And when you started seeing Emma, I was sure it was a scheme to bring down the White Knight. In my mind you were the source of all evil. And everything you did was a ruse, every thought was a scheme, every word was either a veiled threat or a lie. And I was the hero, the persecuted one, and Emma was the Knight in shining armor, only she fell off her horse at the wrong place."

"Henry—"

He shook his head, opened his mouth to speak but it took him a moment to get the words out.

"When I was four I used to make you kiss every spot I got hurt at, to make the pain go away, you remember?"

She nodded; of course she remembered.

"You never once said no," he went on. "You kissed every scraped knee, every broken fingernail, every bruised ankle, every head bump, every spot I said hurt until I out-grew it."

He had stepped forward towards her, his hands reaching out to grab the cold metal bars as his voice broke. "It hurts."

"Oh, baby." She reached out hesitantly and cupped his face, wiping at his tears with her thumbs.

"It hurts, Mom," he said as a sob escaped his throat and he slid down to the cold, stony floor of the dungeon. She slid down with him, never letting go of his face. From across the cold, hard bars she pulled his face forward gently and kissed his forehead.

"I still hate you. I blame you for everything that happened. How could you — with all your might and power, your curses and spells and everything — how could you let that happen to Emma?"

He sobbed harder than ever as Regina held him from across the bars.

"Your love was a lie! Hope was stolen, Hope was false, it was lost! How could you let that happen, Mom?"

"I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry, Henry," was all she said as her tears splashed down her face and onto the top of his head.

_A/N: That's that for now. I would love to hear your thoughts and suggestions._


End file.
